


another year

by savedby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, NHL All-Star Weekend, Vegas Golden Knights, pining but not from afar, pining from up close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 21:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: The first Las Vegas Golden Knights join the All-Star Weekendor,Flower and Nealer do Tampa (but mostly each other)





	another year

**Author's Note:**

> [Here are the boyfriends on a private plane to Tampa](https://twitter.com/GoldenKnights/status/956966711437156352)
> 
>  
> 
> Biggest thanks to [luxover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover) for the beta work. I adore you, I'm your biggest fan, tell me when I get too clingy

 

 

Marc-Andre can’t say that he particularly misses the days where he had to share a room with a teammate. Sid snored and then he’d venomously deny that he snored, and they’d end up bickering about it on the plane on the way back. When the league mandated that they all have separate rooms on away trips, Marc-Andre was more than happy to have Sid across the hall. He kept the plane seat next to him though. Occasionally still picked on him about innocuous things.

 

Now he doesn’t have a designated seat buddy. They rotate. Sometimes it’s Malcolm, who picks his brain about goaltending, or Belly, when he’s up to no good. On away trips, it’s Nealer, because he’s sleepy and cuddly after he swallows his motion sickness medication, and he lets Marc-Andre use him as a pillow. 

 

They have single seats on the private plane to Tampa. Nealer stays awake just enough to blearily wave to the fans through a staffer’s phone, then he curls up and is out like a light. 

 

Marc-Andre doesn’t stare at him as he sleeps because he’s not a creeper. But Nealer is cute, dishevelled and with a small amount of stubble. He buries his head into the scarf he brought, presumably with the expectation that Tampa would be colder than Vegas is. Which is a ridiculous notion but Nealer does ridiculous things sometimes, so.

 

Marc-Andre realizes that he is, in fact, staring. Like a creeper. He picks up the in-flight magazine, determined to focus on the sudoku puzzle instead. 

 

He wonders if anyone has told Nealer that they’re going to be sharing a room for the duration of the All-Star weekend. How he’d reacted. If he was excited, or if he was worried that Marc-Andre would snore. He doesn’t. Snore that is. Nealer should know that by now.

  
  


*

  
  


“We’re sleeping together?” Nealer asks, shocked when Marc-Andre passes him his key.

 

There’s no one else waiting for the elevator, so Marc-Andre feels safe enough to smirk at him. “Yeah, for a couple of months now. You haven’t noticed?” he says, and Nealer rolls his eyes at him, flushing.

 

It has been a few months, he realizes. Since training camp even, when he’d tumbled Nealer onto his couch after team dinner and came back to himself a few minutes later, boxers damp and a bruise sucked high on Nealer’s neck, impossible to hide.

 

Nealer had scolded him for that, even though he didn’t seem to mind while it was happening. He wore a scarf for a week after that, tried and actually succeeded in making it seem like a fashion statement in the Nevada heat.

 

Marc-Andre hadn’t had a bed then, to invite Nealer to. Had barely unpacked his gear and a few suitcases, was waiting for the mattress after a mix-up with the company. 

 

Somehow, Nealer seemed to have interpreted it so that he wasn’t invited to Marc-Andre’s bed at all. They did it on the couch, in the bathroom, and once, memorably, on the kitchen counter. But he never got around to asking Nealer to bed, and Nealer certainly never acted like he wanted to stay the night.

 

“Shut up,” Nealer says now, in a hotel corridor in Tampa, as the elevator doors ding open. Nealer attempts to straighten his hair and his slightly rumpled suit in the mirrors, then gives up with a sigh, muttering about having to iron it once they found their room.

 

Marc-Andre watches his profile and thinks about kissing him, about pressing him against the mirrored walls and messing him up further. But. He’s too old to be caught on something like that. And sometime in Nashville, Nealer has grown up enough that he doesn’t suggest it. Grown up enough that he talks about steaming the wrinkles out of his suit like it’s the direst possible thing he has to do.

 

Marc-Andre doesn’t know what it says about him that he finds that incredibly hot.

  
  
  


*

  
  


The room itself is spacious, more of an apartment than the cramped hotel rooms they’re used to on away trips. They have a lounge, with couches that Marc-Andre determinedly doesn’t think about defiling. There’s a kitchen, not that they’ll use it, even though Nealer makes his own scrambled eggs now, no Paulie required.

 

The beds are queen sized, plenty big enough for two people. “You can take the window one,” Nealer says before heading on into the bathroom, and Marc-Andre tries not to read too much into that. 

 

“Hey, we have a tropical shower!” Nealer calls from the bathroom and Marc-Andre pushes those thoughts away to follow his voice.

 

He finds Nealer shirtless, and halfway through unbuttoning his pants, the shower already running. 

 

“Does it count as an All-Star weekend hook-up if you’re teammates?” Marc-Andre asks, reaching to pull his shirt over his head.

 

Nealer is grinning at him, shimmying out of his pants. “We can roleplay,” he offers.

 

Marc-Andre nods, turning serious. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll be Sid, you can be Ovi.”

 

Nealer starts laughing so hard he trips over himself and wipes out. As he helps him onto his feet, Marc-Andre reflects on how reassuring it is that Nealer still does dumb shit occasionally. Sure, he’d grown up a bit in Nashville, but underneath it all, he’s still just a giant nerd. The trouble is that Marc-Andre has started to find that sort of attractive too.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s not really the All-Star Weekend without a spot of daytime drinking. Which is to say - they run into Kucherov in the hotel lobby and a couple of minutes later they’re surrounded by Russians offering them flavoured vodka. Vasilevskiy is drinking it like soda. “It’s blueberry!” he says, pouring Marc-Andre a shot.

 

It burns like gasoline on the way down.

 

“What the fuck,” Marc-Andre gasps between coughs. Vasilevskiy pats him on the back with an innocent expression that makes him think that this is some form of revenge for two seasons ago. 

 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Nealer on his tiptoes, hugging Rinne, and comparing outfits with Subban. Then something small and furiously French hits Marc-Andre’s back like a freight train, and he turns around to pull Tanger into a proper hug, all thoughts of Nealer forgotten for the moment. 

  
  


*

  
  


Marc-Andre reunites with Nealer on the dancefloor a couple of hours later and they stumble up to their room, holding each other up.

 

Again, Marc-Andre considers pushing him up against the mirrored walls of the elevator, though he’s considerably closer to actually doing it after a few shots have broadened his definition of a good idea. It’s probably good that they get up to their floor before he starts unbuttoning the rest of Nealer’s buttons. He’d unbuttoned a few himself in response to the heat, offering a distracting glimpse of clavicle that’d been catching Marc-Andre’s eye all night.

 

Marc-Andre only ducks into the bathroom for a minute, tops, reentering the bedroom with a question that dies on his lips when he sees that Nealer is sound asleep, curled up under the covers so only a tuft of his hair is peeking out.

 

“Not even a cuddle?” he asks, plaintively. Nealer doesn't even stir. 

 

Marc-Andre sighs lays down on the other - empty - bed and turns off the lights.

  
  


*

  
  


Marc-Andre wakes up to someone clumsily patting his shoulder.

 

“Nealer, what?” he whispers. Nealer looks soft and unreal, the light coming through the blinds slashing shadows across his face.

 

“I’m cold, Flower,” Nealer says, in a tone that has Marc-Andre automatically lifting the covers and making room even before his brain comes fully online.

 

“Did you bring your comforter with you?” he asks, and Nealer sniffles, carefully but clumsily spreading his comforter over both of them before hiding his face in Marc-Andre’s chest. His hands come up around his torso and creep under his shirt. Nealer’s fingers are like icicles and Marc-Andre hisses.

 

“You really are cold,” he says, wonderingly. “You could have just turned off the air conditioner, you know.”

 

Nealer stiffens against him. After a moment, he starts to pull away. Marc-Andre wraps his arms around him instinctively and he stops. “Don’t be stupid,” Marc-Andre tells him, quietly. After a moment, Nealer starts to relax.

 

Marc-Andre pulls him closer, tucking the edges of the comforter around them. It doesn’t take long before Nealer’s breathing goes calm and even. Nealer is soft and squishy where Marc-Andre is all sinew and sharp bones. 

 

They’ll have to talk about Nealer’s bed sharing hang-ups in the morning, probably hungover. But for now, Marc-Andre is plenty comfortable. He tightens his hold on Nealer and falls asleep.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> What's this? A VGK fic that isn't a part of my [Bold in Gold series?](https://archiveofourown.org/series/742260) These two deserve it. That being said, look for hints of this ship in upcoming instalments of that.


End file.
